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My lips are nude, and soft to the touch,
Like a new flower, slowly roused from sleep.
I feel that the world will not consider me much
Until I stain my mouth with color deep.
So I choose a hue of bleeding wine;
Creamy in texture, burgundy-red;
The color of a grape, still alive on the vine;
Fatally sensuous, like my mother said.
From my paleness arise the colorless mists;
My senses are breathing, and painfully awake.
The shade reminds me of my own slit wrists,
And my tongue is slowly charmed, like a snake.
And so I approach you, as if for the first time;
The color is on my lips, and in my blood.
With one kiss, I long to make you mine;
And have you turn to stars all that was mud.
Our mouths meet, our lips do part;
A single breath I cannot bear to waste;
But then I stop, and wince at your art,
For it is another’s lipstick on your mouth I taste…
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Servitas a Periculum
Servatis a Maleficum
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In Monumentum (In Remembrance)
